In the operating theatre a young girl is fighting for her life.
Those in there with her are doing the same. Outside, further along the corridor and in the waiting room, a mother sits and waits. She sits in a far corner with a handkerchief pressed to her face. Music seeps into the room through a tiny speaker. It is just audible. It is classical. Wind instruments sounding against each other in a duet. A flute and a bassoon. They are competing. The flute, with its high, merrily tripping notes. The bassoon, with a deeper, more foreboding register. There is antagonism in the piece. These two instruments are at odds. The flute, ascending and offering hope. The bassoon, gravely warning of dire consequences. The battle rages as the mother sits.
On the table, a girl. An innocent victim of a careless driver. Nobody meant it to happen. In the theatre, all there are hoping to save a life. It is what they do. There is no music playing in there. Any struggle between life and death stays in the heads of those present. They do not need music to prompt the saving of a life. A machine gives a slow steady thump to beat time, giving no more melody than a metronome. In their heads they are all marking time.
The music plays on for the mother. The bassoon, ominous. The flute, striving for better things.
Hours pass before the swish of the doors are heard from the end of the hall.
The soft harmony of the flute prevails, as the surgeon comes forward with a smile.
